


Others Have Excuses

by Flynne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M, Nathan Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-02 01:52:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17878850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flynne/pseuds/Flynne
Summary: Nathan Hawke and Anders have their reasons.A series of short ficlets spanning the years in Kirkwall.





	1. Names

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from borrowed from the song "Reasons Why" by Nickel Creek.

“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”

The already-present furrows in Nathan’s brow deepen. “What?”

“Carver.” Anders looks darkly over his shoulder at the retreating back of Nathan’s brother and lowers his voice. “Why do you let him talk down to you?”

“I don’t _let_ him,” Nathan replies, nettled by Anders’ tone. “That’s just how he is. It wasn’t easy for him, growing up with two apostate siblings.”

Anders’ face does something complicated, distress and consternation warring for dominance before he gives himself a little shake, expression and tone softening. “Hawke - first of all, you’re not an apostate.”

Nathan snorts. “I’m a mage who has lived his life away from any Circle, hiding from the Chantry and the templars. What else would you call me?”

“No, listen.” Anders reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm. “It doesn’t matter what I would call you. It doesn’t matter what anyone else calls you. ‘Apostate’ is a word other people use to describe you. What word do _you_ use?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nathan says uncertainly.

“Everybody else looks at me and calls me ‘apostate’. But I won’t let other people decide who or what I am. I am a mage; a free mage, not an apostate, and no one is going to dictate what I call myself.” Anders leans closer, holding his gaze. “What do you call yourself, Hawke?”

A shiver runs down Nathan’s spine. The intensity in Anders’ eyes holds him transfixed, and he fights to marshal his thoughts. He’s never considered the question. Even his mother, who loves him, has only ever referred to him as an apostate on the rare times she’s mentioned it at all. And he’s never questioned it - it’s what he is, a mage loose in the world. But now that Anders has made him think about it, he realizes that he doesn’t like it; realizes that every time he’s heard that word, his shoulders have bowed with guilt, remembering that he and his sister are a dangerous burden to his family, a shameful secret to keep quiet.

“I’m…”

 _I’m a mage._ Anders must be waiting for him to say it. But he can’t. It’s too dangerous, feels like a defiant declaration he doesn’t want to make. He doesn’t want to be known as an apostate, doesn’t want to be known as a mage, just desperately wants to be _himself_ without anybody hunting him or judging him. His answer blunders free. “I’m…Nathan.”

He waits for Anders to look disappointed…but he doesn’t. He holds Nathan’s gaze for a moment longer before giving him a small, warm smile. “Nathan. Don’t let anybody tell you who you are. You’re a good man - and a good brother, from what I’ve seen. Don’t let anyone call you an apostate. Not even you.”

Anders squeezes his arm and lets him go. Nathan can only stare after him, speechless and a little dazed, a small voice in the back of his mind wondering what it would take for Anders to say his name like that again.


	2. Comfort

He appears at Anders’ door late at night with his mabari at his heels, pale and very quiet. Anders lets him in, watching him with concern. “Hawke, what is it?”

He doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t look up. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me. But why are you - I mean, I thought…” _I thought you’d be at home._ He cuts himself off. He’s almost broken one of his oldest rules: don’t ask a mage why they are not with their family. Too often, the answer to the question only brings pain. And anyhow…well, in this case he has a pretty good idea why Hawke is here. “Come in and sit down.”

Hawke lets Anders steer him over to a low bench. He sets aside his staff and drops heavily onto the rough wood, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Sundog flops on the floor beside him with a gusty sigh, heavy head resting on top of his foot.

Anders sits carefully next to him. “Can I get you anything?”

“No. I just…can I stay for a while? I don’t think I should go back to Gamlen’s house just now.” His voice catches and he stops, throat working for a moment before he can speak calmly again. “And I don’t want to go to the Hanged Man.”

“Of course you can stay.”

Hawke nods his thanks and leans back against the wall, staring blankly across the room. Sundog’s furry brow wrinkles and he whines very softly.

He shouldn’t ask. He shouldn’t, but Hawke is the one who came to him, and he looks worse than Anders has ever seen him; and in spite of his efforts to maintain a friendly distance, he can’t bear to sit by and watch him hurting. “They don’t blame you?”

Hawke shrugs miserably. “Mother begged me not to take him. But I - I need him…needed him, and I didn’t listen. The one time she asks me to look after my brother, and I fail him.”

Anger for Hawke’s sake flares, shocking in its intensity, but he manages to swallow it down and keep his voice gentle. “No…no, Hawke…listen to me. Look at me. Please.” He waits until Hawke obeys. “Carver is a soldier. He survived _Ostagar_. He’s a capable warrior and he doesn’t need looking after.”

“I know - ”

“I don’t think you do.” The interruption is firm, but kind. “Carver is a grown man, and he made his own choices. You know he would have resented it if you’d left him behind.”

“You’re right,” Hawke says. “I know you’re right. It’s only…things were just starting to be good between us. Better than they’ve been since we were children. And now…” His voice breaks again and he buries his face in his hands.

Anders’ chest aches. He moves his hand - hesitates - then completes the motion to rest his hand on Hawke’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” He gives him time, waiting until he’s regained some of his composure before telling him, “I meant what I said, you know. Carver is stronger than he realizes, and I truly believe he has a good chance of surviving.” Hawke looks over at him with wet eyes, not hopeful but clearly wanting to be. Anders gives him a faint smile. “I’ve been through the joining, I should know.”

Hawke can’t smile back, but something in his expression eases. He wipes his eyes with finger and thumb, leans back against the wall. Anders’ hand falls away from his shoulder. He’s quiet for a minute or two before saying quietly, “I’m older, but Carver’s always been…Mother would ask him to look out for Bethany and me. Carver was the dependable one, the one who had to protect and hide his apostate brother and sister. It wasn’t fair to him, but that’s how it was.” He tilts his head in the direction of his sturdy, unadorned mage staff. “He’s the one who taught me to use a quarterstaff.”

“He taught you well. Even I didn’t know you were a mage until the first time we had to fight together, that night at the Chantry. And even then, you didn’t use so much as a cantrip until you were backed into a corner.”

“He was a good teacher,” Hawke agrees, “if not a very patient one.” He smiles sadly. “You gave us a chance to save him. No matter what happens, I’ll always be grateful for that.” He looks down at his hands, loosely clasped in his lap. “I hope he’ll be happy. I don’t know what I’ll do without him, but…he’s probably better off without me around.”

“Hawke - ” Anders forces himself to bite back his reply, but he’s frustrated and angry with Carver for every cutting remark he’s heard him say all over again. And then he closes his mouth for a different reason, because what he wants to say is: _Nobody would be better off without you_.

“That…I didn’t mean it to sound like that,” Hawke says guiltily. “But…you didn’t know him before, when he joined Cailan’s army. And you didn’t see the change when he came back home. I love him, but he…he seems to thrive when he’s not around me.”

Anders bites the inside of his lip, deliberating. Whatever has passed between Hawke and Carver isn’t his business, but Hawke’s continual self-deprecation is painful to watch, especially when he doesn’t deserve it. And he’s decided that he trusts Anders enough to share this with him, so after taking a moment to think, he ventures, “Listen…I know you’ve depended on Carver to protect you, but…you’re quite formidable just on your own. You do know that, right?”

“I’m…I know I can fight.”

Anders huffs, shakes his head. “You can do more than just fight.” He waits until Hawke looks at him. “Do you know how exceptional you are? Growing up without any form of guidance or training in the art of magic, and look at what you can do. I’ve seen you attempt new spells just in the short time I’ve known you. Do you realize that you’ve taught yourself things that Circle mages spend years working to master?” Hawke stares at him, mouth slightly open. Clearly he hasn’t thought about this at all. He looks as if he’s been hit in the head. Anders smiles gently. “Give yourself more credit, Nathan. You deserve it.”

Hawke gulps a little before managing to say faintly, “Thank you.”

“Carver isn’t the only Hawke who is stronger than he realizes,” Anders says, “And from what I’ve seen, you don’t need someone to protect you. But if you want someone at your back…well, I can’t take your brother’s place, but you’ve got me. A-and Varric, and Aveline,” he adds hastily, afraid of saying too much. “You’re not alone.”

Hawke ducks his head, unable to contain a short, surprised breath of sheepish laughter as he rubs at his eyes again. “I appreciate that. Thanks for listening, Anders. I’m glad you were home.”

“My door is always open.” Anders pats his shoulder again and gets to his feet. “Listen, it’s late. Stay here tonight. You can take my cot and I’ll sleep on the floor. Just don’t let Sundog up with you.” The mabari grumbles indignantly and lifts his head. “It’s nothing personal,” Anders says, stammering from the bizarre feeling of explaining himself to a dog. “The cot’s pretty rickety. I don’t think the frame can handle that much weight without collapsing.”

Sundog grumbles again, plaintive this time, but it gets a smile and a genuine laugh out of Hawke, and Anders doesn’t mind feeling foolish.


	3. Closer

Nathan isn’t quite as tall as Anders, but he’s stronger. It’s a fact that doesn’t really register with him, though, until the moment he’s got the man pinned against the wall. Not that Anders is voicing any objection - although what he’s doing with his mouth would make it extremely difficult to talk. 

Years of training to wield a quarterstaff have made Nathan broad and muscular, but when Anders’ hand slips inside his shirt, his strength deserts him as his knees threaten to give out. He shivers, breaks the kiss with a gasp, leans heavily on Anders and the wall to hold himself up. 

“Well, that was easy,” Anders purrs with a grin.

Nathan laughs breathlessly. “Tease me if you must, but keep in mind this is all new to me.”  

Anders lets out an eager sound as Nathan kisses him again, but the careless statement has caught his attention, and he takes advantage of the next pause for breath to ask, “What is? Being with a man?”

“Being with anyone.”

Anders stills. For several heartbeats, he’s silent, then very softly says, “Oh…”

“Lothering was a small town,” Nathan explains quietly, “but there was a Chantry there. I couldn’t risk anyone finding out I was a mage. There was...never anybody I trusted enough to let them get that close.”  

The smile Anders gives him is tender and achingly sweet, the kiss the follows even more so. But Nathan likes it when Anders is laughing, so even though he’s drawn forward with nearly irresistible longing, he smirks when Anders looks at him again and says, “Although that’s not to say no one was trying.”

“Indeed?” Anders sounds a little winded, but sees what he’s trying to do and responds in kind, hands linked loosely together at the back of Nathan’s neck.

“Mhm. There was a girl - one of Carver’s friends. I don’t rightly remember her name...Pauline or Paulette or something. Everyone called her Peaches.”

Anders can’t contain a snort. “You’re serious?”

Nathan shrugs, an eloquent gesture communicating that he neither knows nor cares where the name came from. “She had her sights set on me, even though I’d done nothing to encourage her. She wasn’t quite bold enough to corner me but she made her interest plain. She sent a letter to Carver shortly after we settled here. Told him to give me a hug and a kiss for her.”

Anders bursts out laughing, the way Nathan had hoped he would. “I can just imagine the look on his face.”

“No. No, you really can’t,” Nathan says, grinning. 

Anders shakes his head, eyes soft and fond. “Poor Peaches.” He places one hand on the small of Nathan’s back, cradles the back of his head with the other, and pulls him in. 

Nathan is stronger, but he lets Anders walk him backward to the bed. He lays back, welcomes Anders’ warm, comforting weight, lets it hold him down. 


	4. Tempest

“Hey, put those things away. We’re getting out of here.”

Anders looks up from the herbs and potion components he’s been listlessly sorting through, glancing dubiously out the window at the heavy gray sky. “We are?” The weather has been hot and still for days, and the clouds are shifting uneasily in a wind that isn’t reaching low enough to stir the air in the streets. “And where are we going, exactly?”

Nathan smiles and shrugs, deliberately casual. “Out to the coast.”

He raises his eyebrows. “To do what, exactly?” 

“There’s something I want to show you.”

“You do realize it’s going to storm.” 

Nathan grins wider. “It’ll be fine. Trust me.” 

The light in his eyes and the anticipation thrumming in his voice is so unlike his usual cautious manner that Anders finds himself grinning back. He pushes back from the table. “All right. Let’s go.”

Nathan shoulders a small bag as they depart. Sundog grumbles a bit when he’s told to stay home, but happily allows himself to be distracted when Sandal throws an old boot for him to chase. The streets are rapidly emptying out, merchants closing up their open-air shops as the first fitful gusts of wind begin stirring the awnings.

By the time they make it out to the coast, the increasingly strong gusts have become a steady rush. Without Kirkwall’s buildings to break it up, the wind is a solid wall buffeting against them. The sea churns gray-green and restless, flinging white foam into the air as the waves crash against the rocks. The sound is wild and desolate, but Nathan takes him by the hand and Anders smiles back at him, feeling warm and light. It’s not something they do often, holding hands. They’ve never talked about it, but it’s rare that either of them show affection freely in public, wary of catching too much attention from the templars or the Chantry, in spite of the Viscount’s good graces.

Now, though, the coast is deserted, not a soul for miles. Nathan’s hand is solid and warm within his grasp. Lightning flickers in the distant clouds, and after a pause the first low echo of thunder reaches them, barely audible over the rush and swell of the sea. 

The first drops of rain begin to fall as they skid down the last pebbly slope to the beach. Nathan tugs him along, both of them running clumsily in the sand. It’d be easier to run if they let go of each other, but Anders holds tight, exhilarated by the almost giddy expectation in Nathan’s face. They duck into one of the caves along the base of the cliffs. 

Anders looks around, catching his breath. The sandy floor is dry, but it’s packed hard and textured with ripples, and he knows at high tide it will be flooded. “Well? What did you want to show me?”

Thunder rumbles again, closer this time. Nathan lets his pack thump to the ground. “Wait here.” 

“You’re going out there  _ now? _ ” The scattered raindrops start coming a little faster, pattering on the sand. 

Nathan grins. “Just watch.” He picks up his staff and steps out into the gathering gloom. Anders half reaches for him, not quite concerned but leery of the blackening sky. He lets him go without a word, though, moving close to the cave entrance. 

Nathan strides out onto the sand, ignoring the rain and the wind. He stops halfway between the cave and the water, planting his feet as he raises his staff. Anders knows the sturdy, unadorned staff wields lightning, but he’s not prepared for what happens when Nathan slams the staff into the ground. Lightning spears up into the sky and the clouds answer, sending a brilliant bolt lancing down to meet it. The clap of thunder rattles Anders through to his bones, and all he can do is stare. 

Magic lightning wreaths Nathan’s body, twining around his limbs and deflecting the bolts from the sky. Sparking tendrils ground themselves around him, flashing red-hot in the sand. Rain begins pelting down in earnest, hissing against the heated ground. Anders presses his hand against the cave wall, rough rock digging into his palm. He can hardly breathe, watching Nathan call down and catch the brilliant jagged bolts, scattering them around him, movements strong and fluid, the way he moves in battle. Anders’ eyes are dazzled by the light, and the thunder pounds through him, and he is hypnotized.

High above, lightning tears at the clouds, and it begins to hail. Nathan ducks, bending to take something from the sand before darting back to the cave. He stumbles inside and collides with Anders, soaking wet and laughing. His kiss is cold with rainwater and tastes of salt spray, and Anders’ lips tingle as the last sparks skitter over Nathan’s body and into his mouth. 

“How did you - ” Anders stammers, “ - when did you learn -  _ how? _ ”

Nathan smiles and kisses him again. “Back home, when I lived in Lothering,” he says, understanding the disjointed question. He sounds as breathless as Anders feels. “I would take long walks in the open country. Sometimes it storms. I just - figured out what to do.”

“You figured out…” He shakes his head, still dazed. “Spirits, you’re amazing.” He hauls Nathan closer, kissing him until they’re both panting for air.

Nathan laughs against his mouth. “Here, give me a moment. We can’t have you getting wet, too.” He brushes at the front of Anders’ clothes, now slightly damp where their bodies were pressed together. He puts something hard and and gritty into Anders’ hand before stepping away and reaching for his pack. “For you.” 

It feels like a rock, and he realizes Nathan must have picked it up before he ran to join him. In the dim light of the cave, Anders can’t see it clearly. He moves to the entrance, holding his hand out just enough for the rain to wash the clinging sand away. An irregularly shaped, smooth, pearlescent piece of glass is in the center of his palm. 

“Lightning does that to sand, sometimes,” Nathan says from behind him.

Anders turns. Nathan has shed his wet things. Lightning flares outside, briefly illuminating the lines of his body in white light. Anders has to catch his breath again. 

The sparks around Nathan have long since faded, but the air between them is charged and thick. Nathan’s voice is slightly unsteady when he speaks. “We can ask Sandal to enchant it for you if you want.”

“I - ” Anders swallows audibly. “I - yes.” A gust of wind shocks him by sending the cold rain sheeting into the mouth of the cave, and he ducks away from it.

Nathan hurriedly pulls on his dry clothes, giving him a wry little smile. “The first time I did this, I didn’t have a change of clothes with me. The walk home was decidedly unpleasant.” 

“At least you’ve learned,” Anders manages to say. 

Nathan pulls a blanket out of his bag and beckons to him with a smile. Anders can feel him shivering slightly against him as the chill of the rain fades, but his kiss is full of heat and a promise for later. For now, though, they bundle together in the blanket and sit on the sand, safe in their cave while the storm rages around them. 


	5. Loss

Anders wakes with a start when something cold and wet presses against his cheek. He props himself up on his elbows, blinking groggily at the hulking silhouette of Sundog next to the bed. “I hope you didn’t just wake me up because you missed me,” he whispers, stifling a yawn. He glances to the right to make sure he hasn’t disturbed Nathan, only to sigh sadly when he sees the other half of the bed empty. Somewhere along the line, he’s stopped waking up whenever Nathan moves in his sleep. It had given him a warm, comforting feeling when he’d first noticed the change, realizing that his years of vigilance and paranoia had somehow eased, allowing him to truly rest and feel safe around this one person. 

He doesn’t think it’s a good thing that Nathan has slipped away without waking him tonight. 

He stretches his arm out, frowning when he feels that the sheets are cold. “Do I need to go find him?” he asks. Sundog whines, shuffling his feet impatiently. Anders climbs out of bed, straightening the soft shirt and pants he’d worn to sleep in, and pads softly from the room. 

Sundog leads the way down the stairs toward the back of the house. Light filters out beneath the closed kitchen door. Anders recoils slightly when he pushes the door open - partly from the light, which is startlingly bright from multiple lamps - but partly from the whiskey vapors, so strong that the air in the little room feels thick. Nathan is slumped in his chair at the table, holding a bottle that Isabela left at the house ages ago, and an alarming amount of the brown liquid is gone. 

“Nathan.” Anders pulls a chair close, leaning into his line of sight. “What are you doing?” Sundog moans softly and curls up on the floor at Nathan's feet.

Nathan’s eyes are red, his cheeks wet. “I kept seeing her,” he says thickly. “I couldn’t get her face out of my mind, what she looked like when we found her. But people say if you’re drunk enough, y-you forget.” He doesn’t resist when Anders gently pries the bottle out of his hand and sets it aside. “But it’s not working. I still see her.”

“You don’t even like whiskey,” Anders sighs. Truth be told, Nathan has been worrying him. He’s been walking around in a numb haze ever since they found the remains of his mother. He’s still handled everything required; kept himself composed throughout the funeral, even dealing with the superficial sympathies of the Hightown residents, people who didn’t know Leandra well but were simultaneously horrified and thrilled that something so heinous had happened to one of their neighbors. Nathan has made it through everything, calm and stoic, so much so that his manner has reminded Anders chillingly of the tranquil state that they both fear. So even though Anders is concerned and his heart aches to see him breaking, it almost comes as a relief.

“Carver will never forgive me.” He presses the heels of his hands against his brimming eyes. “He blames me for Bethany’s death...he said it was my fault, what happened to him in the Deep Roads…”

“He said  _ what!?” _

Nathan doesn’t acknowledge Anders’ outraged interruption. “And now, Mother is...she’s...I couldn’t save her, I’ll have to tell him, and h-he’ll never forgive me.” He crumples forward, breaking down in soft, hitching sobs.

“No. No, love...” Anders gathers him in, holds his head against his chest. “He can’t think…” He has to stop, swallowing down the knot of anger rising in his throat. “This wasn’t your fault.  _ Nothing  _ that happened was your fault. He’ll understand.” Even as he says it, he knows it might not be true, not when Carver has the gall to blame his brother for consequences of an expedition he’d argued to join. But he can’t bear to see Nathan hurting.

Nathan circles Anders’ waist with his arms, clinging so tightly it hurts. “Don’t die,” he begs, voice ragged with grief. 

The words sink into Anders’ heart like a blade. For a moment, he can’t speak, just holds him, gently stroking the bowed head with his hand. Kirkwall’s myriad of dangers aside, Nathan has chosen to love a man who was once a Grey Warden. He may have left the order, but the mantle is not something that can be shed so easily. Part of him had hoped that by allowing Justice in, the curse of the wardens might be lifted, if not delayed for a while, but he knows he can’t count on it. Barring a miracle that Anders has long since stopped believing in, Nathan will outlive him by decades.

He lets out a shuddering breath and presses his lips against the crown of Nathan’s head, whispering into his hair, “I won’t.” Justice’s disapproval sours the back of his mind - because of the lie, or because of the spirit’s objections to Nathan, Anders can’t tell - but he ignores the silent rebuke, shuts Justice out, focuses all his attention on the weeping man in his arms. “I won’t,” he says again.

The lie is easier to tell this time. He doesn’t know if it’s because saying it once has smoothed the way for more to follow, or because he knows that in the morning, the whiskey will cloud Nathan’s memory and he will not remember his words.


	6. Refuge

The Arishok falls. As one, the qunari lurch forward a step - the captured nobles gasp - but then it’s over. The last sparks sputter and fade from Hawke’s staff. There’s a moment of dead silence.

Hawke starts to take a step, staggers, and falls to one knee. A noisy murmur breaks out in the crowd, but Anders’ sharp cry rings out over the noise. “Nathan!” He bounds down the stairs and runs to his side. Nathan is breathing in short gasps, clearly winded but unable to inhale deeply, and his hand shakes as he clutches Anders’ arm. Anders helps him stand, placing himself between Nathan and the onlookers as much as he can. “Are you all right?” he asks urgently. 

Instead of answering, Nathan flinches back - it’s subtle, and Anders only notices because he’s holding him, but he glances up and stiffens in alarm as Knight-Commander Meredith strides into the room. Nathan’s face becomes a blank mask, and with an effort, he swallows back his rasping breaths. He gives Anders’ hand a fleeting touch before carefully stepping away from him, straightening his shoulders as he meets Meredith’s eyes.

Her hard gaze settles on the dead Arishok and the motionless qunari. “Is it over?”

He nods. “It’s over.” 

Anders hardly hears the nobles’ relieved cheering as someone declares Hawke the city’s new Champion. His attention is divided between Meredith - brittle and cold as frozen steel - and Nathan, outwardly calm and composed, but barely keeping his feet. Just as the tension in the air feels tight enough to snap, Meredith sheaths her sword and stalks away. Nathan makes a subtle movement toward him and Anders is ready. But the crowd is starting to close in around them, and Nathan is on his last legs, and he can’t move him away fast enough. 

He glances around and catches a glimpse of red hair and steel. “Aveline!” He feels a rush of relief as his low call catches her attention. He gives her a pleading look. “I need to get him out of here.”

Concern flashes across her face, but she doesn’t hesitate. She beckons to her guards, casually interposing herself between Hawke and the majority of the onlookers. 

Anders doesn’t waste the opportunity. He pulls Nathan close to his side and ushers him from the room. As soon as they’re in the hall, Nathan sags against him, and Anders staggers for a moment before he can right himself. “How badly are you hurt?”

He doesn’t seem to hear. “I didn’t want to fight him,” he says brokenly. “I didn’t want to kill him.”

“We know. He forced your hand. There’s no doubt about that, everyone saw,” Anders says, trying to soothe. “But I need you to answer me, love - how badly are you hurt?”

“I dunno,” Nathan slurs. He’s panting again, trying to keep up with Anders, and his breath catches in a sharp, painful cough. 

There’s blood on his lips, and Anders feels a terrible chill as he remembers the sight of the Arishok repeatedly lowering his head to charge, ramming Nathan across the room with his broad head and heavy horns. “Bad enough, then,” he murmurs under his breath. He can’t focus enough to do serious healing while he walks, and he doesn’t want to stop and risk anyone following to drag them back. All he can do is summon his aura and let it wash over Nathan as they walk. 

He feels rather than hears someone coming up behind him. He risks a glance behind, alarm morphing into a disorienting combination of annoyance and relief as Fenris comes alongside. The warrior says nothing, but maneuvers himself under Nathan’s other arm. Although shorter and more slender than both of them, he is much stronger than he looks, and Anders can’t help but be grateful as he takes a portion of Nathan’s weight.

“Thank you.”

Fenris just grunts in reply. With his help, they make good time, even as Nathan grows weaker. Sundog lets out a growl that tapers into an anxious whine as they enter the estate, but stays out of the way.

Fenris adjusts his grip. “Couch or bed?”

Anders hesitates. He doesn’t think Nathan can make it up the stairs, but once he’s settled, he doesn’t want to move him again. And with Fenris to help, they can probably manage to get him there. “Bed,” he decides. 

Between the two of them, they get Nathan to his room. Fenris steps back once they lower him to the mattress. His face is impassive, but he sounds concerned when he asks, “Does he need anything?” 

“I don’t know yet. But a few elfroot potions won’t be a bad idea. There should be some in the larder downstairs.” 

Fenris departs without a word, and Anders turns his full attention to Nathan. He’s pale and there’s a faint but definite bluish cast to his lips. Anders makes short work of divesting him of his leathers and mail shirt. The links in the light armor are mangled and crushed where the Arishok crashed into him. Savage bruises are already spreading in wide swaths across his chest and back, and as Anders runs his hands over his torso, he recognizes the hitch that comes from breathing with broken ribs. 

Despite his years of experience as a healer, the sight of Nathan shaking with pain causes panic to flutter beneath his breastbone, but he clenches his teeth and forces himself to think of the injured man before him as simply another patient. He can help. This is not beyond him. He takes Nathan’s face in his hands, spares just long enough to caress his cheeks with his thumbs, then slides his hands down his neck and flattens his palms on both sides of his chest. 

He feels the familiar swirling pulse of energy from Justice, but for once, he ignores it. The spirit has made it clear that it disapproves of their relationship, and while Anders knows Justice cannot cause harm, the thought of bringing it forward when Nathan is so injured makes him inexplicably uneasy. So he draws solely on his own mana, palms glowing with soft golden light. 

Focusing like this, he can feel Nathan’s racing heartbeat, a harsh staccato out of time with his own. He follows the angry red flare of pain, hands gliding along bruised muscle and cracked bone. Nathan tenses beneath his touch as he reacts to the jarring feeling of warmth and relief warring with his body’s knowledge that something is  _ wrong _ as the pain vanishes before it should. 

The effort is draining, leaving Anders short of breath, but he keeps his aura steady. Nathan’s bounding pulse slows, his alarming struggle for air eases, and he sinks deeper against the bed. He doesn’t look right: too pale, still frightened even though he is out of danger, but the desperate trust in his eyes pierces Anders like a lance.

Nathan’s eyes flick to a spot over Anders’ shoulder, and he knows Fenris has returned. The elf places a pair of elfroot potions on the bedside table, then surprises Anders by producing a lyrium draught. He wouldn’t have thought Fenris would pay attention to something like that, but then again, he’s become surprisingly good friends with Nathan in spite of his general dislike of mages. Anders is certainly no exception to the rule, but Fenris apparently is willing to help him if it means helping Hawke.

Fenris folds his arms across his chest. “Bodhan and Orana are downstairs. They saw us come in and want to know what they should do.”

“Nothing right now. Tell them Hawke will be all right,” Anders replies. “I’ll call for them if I need them.”

Fenris gestures acknowledgement and takes a step or two back to be away from Anders’ aura. “Is there anything else you need?” 

“I should be fine, now. Thank you.”

Fenris doesn’t answer, but he does incline his head at Nathan’s quiet, “Thank you, Fenris.”

Anders lets his aura ebb as Fenris leaves, pausing long enough to hastily down the lyrium before helping Nathan sit up. He leans heavily on Anders, holding the elfroot draught with both hands as he slowly drains the flask.

“Better now?” Anders asks softly. Nathan nods, but his face is wan and drawn. Anders sighs, helps him lay back, rests his hands on his bruised body once more, and closes his eyes. 

When a hand gently comes to lay atop his own, he looks up to meet Nathan’s gaze. His right hand is along the side of Nathan’s ribs while his left - the one beneath Nathan’s hand - rests softly over the center of his chest. He manages a reassuring smile, but can’t shake his worry. Nathan seems improved - he  _ should _ be, even though he’s only taken one of the potions Fenris brought - but something is still wrong. His breathing isn’t labored, but it’s still too fast. The lines of pain on his face have faded, but his mouth is too tight, and as Anders watches, he averts his eyes and swallows convulsively. Beneath his hands, Anders can feel him trembling.

“Nathan,” he says, very gently, “please tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Meredith.” The word slips out. “She knows who I am. She - she knows what I am.” 

The naked fear in his eyes steals Anders’ breath, but he keeps his voice calm and reassuring. “She’s probably known for some time, love. You’ve had some influence in Kirkwall for a while, now.”

“Because of the viscount. He was on my side, but now he’s dead. A-and…” Anxious words tumble over each other and he has to stop and collect himself. “And now everyone knows I’m a mage and there’s nothing to stop her from coming after us.” His fingers tighten convulsively around Anders’ hand. 

Old fear and old anger stir their heads within his breast, blended with a new fierce protectiveness that has become his companion since Nathan has become part of his life. Justice stirs, sensing his righteous rage, but the threat of Meredith plainly has Nathan terrified - Anders has seen him face down a horde of giant spiders with less fear - and anger is not what he needs right now. 

When he’s doing it for Nathan’s sake, it’s surprisingly easy to quench the flames and turn Justice aside. “Hush now, love.” Anders carefully lays down beside him, takes him in his arms, holds him close while sheltering him in his healing aura. “It’s all right. It’ll be all right. You heard what they called you: you’re the Champion of Kirkwall, now. She can’t touch you without raising an outcry, and she knows it.” He slowly strokes his hand up and down Nathan’s spine, soothing as well as healing. “And you have me. You know I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Nathan hides his face against his neck. “I know.” He’s still tense and unhappy, but the worst of his injuries have been healed and his tremors of pain have subsided, and Anders feels him gradually relax against him. When he speaks, his voice is very quiet, but Anders feels the words warm against his skin. “I love you.”

“And I, you.” He leans back, slowly and softly kisses Nathan’s forehead, his cheek, his closed eyelids before gathering him close once more. “Try to rest. You’re safe.”

Nathan reaches for his hand again, interlacing their fingers. Anders is relieved that his hold is gentle, a simple gesture seeking reassurance and not the desperate, terrified grip from a few moments before. The last of the tension slips away from Nathan’s shoulders as he murmurs, “When you say it, I can almost believe it.”


	7. Identity

Anders’ hand is warm on Nathan’s chest, fingertips tracing idle patterns against his skin. Bright moonlight streams in through the open window, tracing the outlines of their bodies in silver. Nathan is stretched on his back, Anders on his side next to him, his hand the only point of contact between them. Sleep is starting to press in on Nathan’s consciousness, soft and dark, but Anders has the look he gets when he’s got something on his mind. Nathan could ask, but he knows he’ll speak eventually; and he’s reluctant to break the soft, contented silence between them. So he waits patiently, letting his awareness narrow down to the shadowed planes of his beloved’s face and the gentle touch of his hand.

Sure enough, after a short while Anders takes a deep breath and lifts his eyes to his face. He smiles when he sees Nathan watching him. “Waiting for me, were you?”

Nathan smiles back. “I know you.”

“That you do.” He laughs a little. “Although...it’s funny you say it like that.” His throat works for a moment before he says very softly, “I want to tell you my name.”

A ripple of surprise courses through him, chasing away the encroaching fog of sleep, but Nathan doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. Anders has never looked this vulnerable before.

“I was imprisoned in the Circle when I was twelve,” he says quietly. “Templars showed up at my house without any warning. In less than ten minutes I was shackled and dragged from my home.” He doesn’t meet Nathan’s eyes, looking instead at his hand still resting on his chest. “I couldn’t fight back, so I resisted in the only way I could. I refused to speak. Didn’t say a word to anyone. Not a single word, for months.”

Nathan shifts onto his side, catching hold of Anders’ hand, keeping it pressed against his heart. Anders squeezes back tightly. “I don’t know if the templars who arrested me knew my name. Someone had to, since they came for me. I think the woman who was First Enchanter before Irving must have known, but she never said anything. I suppose it was a kindness, letting me hold on to one of the only things left that was mine. People called me ‘the Ander’, because of where I was from. Eventually that’s just who I was.” He lifts his eyes back to Nathan’s. “I’ve never told anyone my name, but I want you to know it.” He moves in close and whispers in Nathan’s ear.

Love swells in Nathan’s chest, so warm and bright it aches. He cups the back of Anders’ head with his hand, murmurs it back to him, kisses him fiercely with his name still on his lips.

That night, that one time, is the only time Nathan says his name aloud. Even when they’re alone, he doesn’t say it. It’s too deep, too precious a secret for him to speak aloud even between just the two of them; a piece of him that was never touched by templars or imprisonment or what he went through to become a Grey Warden. But the way Anders looks at him changes after that night. Nathan says “Anders”, and his beloved hears _I love you_ , _I know you_ , _I will keep you safe,_ and he sees it echoed back to him in Anders’ eyes.


	8. Descent

Anders crawls out of the sewers exhausted, battered, and stinking. Walking alone through Darktown is usually foolish at this time of night, but the residents are grateful to have a healer among them and he passes through the shadows unmolested. It’s not far to his clinic, and he makes quick work of storing the sela petrae he’s collected in a secure location - one that will contain the smell. 

He scrubs an unholy combination of blood, soot, and unmentionable debris from his hands and arms as best he can in the half-full wash basin, the water long since gone cold. He really should do a thorough job of cleaning up before going back home, but heating water will take more time and effort than he can manage. His left arm throbs from a nasty knife slash, enough that he’s having difficulty moving his fingers, and he’s so  _ tired _ ; not even enough mana left for a simple healing cantrip. He’s drained to his very marrow and when he thinks of home and Nathan he wants it so much that he aches. So even though he’s a mess, he unlocks the passageway and climbs the steep, narrow stair until he drags himself up into the basement of the estate. 

Sundog always hears him coming, and is waiting for him when he emerges from the passage. His nub wags furiously, nose twitching at the odors rolling off of Anders’ clothing. 

“Please let me by - hey, now, we’ve talked about this! That’s not where we stick our noses!” Anders shoves Sundog’s muzzle away from his trousers, bumping awkwardly into the wall as he does his best to evade the curious mabari. Happily undeterred, Sundog lopes after him on his way upstairs. 

Nathan meets them partway, having followed after his dog. “I always know when you get back,” he says with a fond smile. “Not many things can pry that hairy lump out of bed after he’s settled in, but he bounces up when he hears you.” The smile drops off his face as he gets closer and he covers the lower half of his face with one hand, halting in his tracks. “What is that  _ smell?  _ Is that  _ you? _ ” 

“Unfortunately,” Anders says wryly.

“What in Andraste’s name…?” But as Nathan’s eyes adjust to the dim light in the hall, he sees the weary slump of Anders’ shoulders, and his expression softens. “Never mind. You can tell me later. Go on to the bath and wait for me.”

Now that he’s stopped walking, the idea of moving forward again seems almost insurmountable. For a moment he seriously considers just slumping to the floor and going to sleep, but the reek surrounding him isn’t one that you get accustomed to. And Nathan’s got that tone, the one where he sounds simultaneously worried and reassuringly bossy, and the idea of letting Nathan care for him is welcoming enough that Anders obeys. He shuffles his way to the darkened bathroom, dropping onto a low, three-legged stool without bothering to light any of the lamps. 

Nathan joins him after a few minutes, tutting slightly as he finds him sitting in the dark. He pushes a warm mug of tea into Anders’ chilled hands and goes to light the lamps. As usual, he uses matches instead of magic, but a flurry of sparks dances from his fingertips to hurry along the process of heating the water. 

When the tub is filled with steaming water, Nathan helps Anders to his feet and untangles him from his foul overcoat. “I’m afraid you’re going to be washing this yourself, my dear,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t in good conscience ask Orana to touch this.”

Anders lets out a breath of laughter. “Fair enough.”

Nathan’s expression flits between disgust and distress as he peels the rest of Anders’ filthy clothing away to reveal bruises and scrapes standing out starkly on his pale skin, including the ugly scabbed furrow carved in his left forearm. He keeps his comments to himself, though, bundling the discarded garments together to hurry them out of the room. 

Anders lets out a groan as he sinks under the water, staying submerged as long as he can. His wounds sting, but the feeling stops soon, leaving only the welcome heat of the water. When he finally resurfaces, swiping the water off his face, Nathan is sitting on the stool next to the tub, elbows propped on his knees, thumbs rubbing together over his interlaced fingers. His eyes are full of questions, but the only one he asks is, “Are you all right?” He relaxes when Anders nods. “Good. Here.” 

Anders takes the flask when it’s held out to him. The empty hollow at his core slowly dwindles as he sips the lyrium draught. 

Nathan reaches toward him. “Give me your arm,” he says gently. Anders complies without a word. Blood tinged water trickles from beneath Nathan’s fingers as he closes his hands around the injured limb. Warmth suffuses through Anders’ body as Nathan summons his healing aura. Nathan doesn’t lift his eyes from the wound, face solemn, a small wrinkle of concentration between his brows.

Anders watches him in quiet awe, lyrium draught forgotten. He knows that some of their companions think that he was the one to teach Nathan the basics of spirit healing, but he didn’t. Just as Nathan taught himself force magic, just as he learned how to dance with lightning, the path of spirit healing simply opened itself up to him. He is amazing, skilled beyond his own understanding, and all Anders can do is gaze at him in mute admiration and gratitude.

Over slow minutes, the pain fades. Scabs and dried blood slough away from his arm, leaving smooth, unbroken skin behind. The troubled shadow hasn’t faded from Nathan’s eyes, but his smile is fond as he pokes Anders’ half-empty flask with his finger. “Finish that.”

Once again, Anders obeys, then scrubs the filth from his skin and hair while Nathan heats more water. When he’s done, the water around him is noticeably cloudy and brown, and he stands shakily so Nathan can pour fresh hot water over him to rinse him off.

Nathan gives him a steadying hand as he steps out of the tub and hands him a towel. “Do you need anything else?”

Anders smiles, warmed by his attentiveness in spite of the chill of the air on his wet skin. “No, I’ve got it from here.” Nathan briefly touches his cheek with the backs of his fingers, brushes wet hair from his face, and withdraws. Anders dries off and dresses, snuffing the lamps before making his way up to their room. 

A fire is crackling cheerily when he arrives and the room is already warmer. Nathan has pulled a low couch over in front of the hearth and Anders joins him, sinking back against the cushions with a long sigh. 

Nathan takes his hand. “Are you hungry?”

“No. But thank you.”

“Are you going to tell me why you came home looking like a dragon used you as a chew toy, reeking enough to rouse the dead?” His tone is light, but he can’t hide the undercurrent of concern. 

Anders smiles disarmingly, stroking the back of Nathan’s hand with his thumb. “I was in the sewers below Darktown. There were...a few more carta members down there than I was anticipating.” Confusion and alarm flash across Nathan’s face, and Anders gives their joined hands a little shake. “Now, don’t look at me like that. I  _ was _ a Grey Warden, you know. We’re not exactly known for our softness. It was nothing I couldn’t handle.” 

Nathan’s expression tightens. Anders almost  _ hadn’t _ been able to handle it and they both know it, but it’s over and done, nothing else to say. All the same, he waits for a chiding rebuke - almost hopes for it, because if Nathan doesn’t scold him, he’s going to ask more questions, and even though Anders has known he’d need to come up with answers, he still doesn’t know what to say.

But Nathan just sighs, exasperated and relieved all at once, and asks, “Whatever were you doing down there?”

“I was...there was a mineral compound I’ve been looking for. I knew it’d be there.”

“And you decided the best way to go about it was to go by yourself in the middle of the night?”

Anders opens his mouth, closes it again. Guilt and self-reproach curdle in his gut. He should not have returned like this. He should have stayed away until he’d recovered, but in pain and at the end of his endurance, he’d wanted Nathan, and he’d come home to be taken care of.  _ Selfish _ , Justice hisses in his ear.  _ Weak. _ He’s known for a while that he’d need to tell Nathan  _ something _ , known he’d need to ask for his help eventually, but he cannot tell him what he has been doing. This is dark work, ugly work, and Nathan - gentle, trusting Nathan - cannot be involved.

He fumbles for a moment before the words slip out, almost before he has a chance to think about them. “I’ve been...researching what Tevinter mages might do about possession. There’s not much, but they’re the only ones who actually may try to deal with it without simply beheading the victim. I didn’t want to mention it to you until I could be sure there was some merit to it.” In spite of everything, this is actually the truth. Nathan’s expression doesn’t change, but the candleflame of hope that kindles in his eyes is almost too much to bear. Anders forces himself to continue. “I need...I need something else. Drakestone. If you can take me to the Bone Pit, I think I can find some there.” This, spirits help him, is also true. 

Two truths, unrelated to each other, but twisted round each other and uttered in the same breath. And Anders lets the man he loves, the best person he’s ever known, draw the wrong conclusion, and the truths merge to become the most vile lie he has ever told. 


	9. Tethered

When Anders finally comes to bed, Nathan is still awake. He hears the quiet rattle of the knob as the door opens and sits up in bed, smiling a little as he sees Anders wince.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Anders starts unfastening his outer robe. “It’s awfully late.”

Nathan snorts. “Says the man just slinking in the door now.”

“I don’t _slink_.”

“Creeping, then,” Nathan says, and is rewarded with a laugh. He fumbles for the matches and lights the lamp on the bedside table. Soft flickering light pushes back the shadows.

Anders sheds his clothes and climbs in beside him, a quizzical little smile on his face. “So...not sleeping now?”

“Soon.” Nathan reaches for his hand as his heart gives a nervous thump. “I’ve been...wanting to talk to you.”

“Oh?” His brow furrows a little, but his hand is warm and gentle as it curls around Nathan’s.

Nathan takes a breath. “I’ve been wondering if we should leave Kirkwall.”

Anders goes very still. “Leave?”

“Things have been getting worse.” He swallows hard. “Whether or not I’m the Champion, we’re not safe here.” He enfolds Anders’ hand within both his own. “And you’re not happy. You don’t go to the Hanged Man anymore. You’ve been short with everyone lately. You even snapped at Varric yesterday.” Anders looks away, but Nathan leans closer and bends down, trying to meet his eyes again. “We could just...go. I don’t care about this house. We’d leave it behind. Find somewhere quiet to live where there are no guards or templars or Chantry.” He tries to keep his words steady, tries to sound coaxing instead of pleading, but it’s hard. He’s been penned up in this city of stone for too long, and the walls seem to loom higher and closer and darker with each passing year. The memory of the sunlit fields and windswept plains around Lothering is an ache in his heart.

Anders is quiet for a long time. He inhales shakily. “That...It sounds wonderful.” Nathan’s heart sinks. He knows that tone. “You are my heart,” he says, holding tight to Nathan’s hand, “but I can’t leave now. I can’t abandon the mages here. But...if you want to leave, I understand. I’ll help you, like I’ve helped the others.”

Nathan is already shaking his head. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll come to you, when I can.”

“No. No, you can’t stay behind alone. The only reason Meredith hasn’t arrested you is because of me. If I’m gone, she’ll come after you.”

Anders’ face hardens. “She can try.”

“She will, and you won’t be able to hide from her this time. This isn’t like before, when she didn’t know who you were.” He feels horribly cold, imagining Anders shackled and forced into the Gallows. It’s too terrible for him to say aloud, but he knows that the day Meredith’s templars get their hands on Anders, he’ll be made tranquil before the sun sets - if he even allows the templars to take him alive.

Anders’ voice is very gentle. “But you’d be safe.”

“No. I’m staying.” Nathan reaches out to rest his hand against his cheek. “I am your heart, and you are mine,” he says softly. “I’ve been...afraid for most of my life. I still am,” he adds with a slight, self-deprecating smile. His thumb traces lightly over Anders’ cheekbone. “But I’m braver when I’m with you.”

Anders’ breath catches in his chest, and he looks as if he might cry. He lays his hand over Nathan’s, turning his head to press his lips against his palm. Nathan guides him close, kisses him, takes him into his arms, and pulls him down on top of him.

“I love you,” Anders says hoarsely. He lifts their joined hands to kiss Nathan’s knuckles, presses his lips against his throat, claims his mouth again. “I love you, I love you.”

Any other night, Nathan would echo the words back to him. But now he simply holds onto him, pulls him desperately close, murmurs, “I know, I know,” into their kiss, because there’s a broken, pleading tone to Anders’ voice that he’s never heard before, as if he is begging Nathan to believe him.


	10. Sunder

Nathan is sure he is about to die. Sebastian’s eyes are wild with rage and grief, and the only thing between Anders and the nocked arrow is Nathan’s body. He doesn’t know what to do, can hardly breathe beneath the weight of overwhelming horror, unable to grasp what Anders -  _ his  _ Anders - has done. 

“ _ Move _ , Hawke,” Sebastian commands. His voice shakes but the hands on his bow are steady as stone. 

"No,” Nathan hears himself say, “please - wait…”

Sebastian bares his teeth. “After what he’s done, you’re going to let him use you as a shield?” 

Behind him, Anders shifts. Nathan can’t tell what he’s going to do, but if he moves, Sebastian will kill him. He reaches back without thinking, seizes Anders’ arm in an iron grip. “I’m not letting him - that’s not…” But that’s exactly what’s happening, and he can’t deny it, and Anders  _ has _ used him, is using him now; but Nathan has loved him, and he can’t watch him die. “Sebastian, please,” he says, thin and desperate. “I can’t…” 

Despite his fury, Sebastian does not lose control. The wildness in his expression fades, molten rock cooling to become hard and unyielding. “You’re a foolish man, Hawke,” he says bitterly, “but you are not a bad one. I don’t want to kill you. And I will not be so cruel as to kill Anders in front of you, even if he deserves it. But I  _ will _ hunt him down.” His arms drop, roughly disarming his bow and returning the arrow to his quiver as he glares at Anders. “Take advantage of your head start, abomination. You will not get another.” He turns and stalks in the direction of the ruin of the Chantry without a backward glance. 

Nathan shudders and drops Anders’ arm. He can feel Anders watching him, but he doesn’t turn. The smell of blood from the templar corpses at his feet nearly chokes him. Distant wailing and screams echo off the unfeeling stone of the city, undermined by a steadily growing clamor of bellowed orders and clash of armor - the templars mustering, preparing to slaughter them all. His friends are behind him, watching him, staring between him and the man he has loved, the man who has betrayed all the trust that has been placed in him; the man who will surely be killed if he doesn’t run while he has the chance.

Nathan sucks in a breath. His chest feels full of broken glass. “Get out of here.”

Anders’ murmur of  _ Nathan _ reaches his ears at the same time Aveline says, “Hawke…” 

He doesn’t want to hear what either of them are going to say. He wheels around, snarls, “I said  _ go! _ ” 

Anders doesn’t appear to move but Nathan knows him inside and out -  _ although not as well as you thought you did, isn’t that so? _ whispers a horrid cold voice in the back of his mind - and he can see him suppress a flinch. Nathan has never spoken to anyone so harshly. 

Anders takes a step back, and then another. He drops his gaze, says quietly, “Thank you for my life.” He turns and walks away, and he doesn’t look back. Nathan bows his head, both hands clenched so tightly around his staff that his bones ache. He feels gutted, as if half his heart is torn away, a physical pain so intense that his knees threaten to give out.

“Hawke.” He looks up with a harsh intake of breath. Fenris has moved to stand in front of him. “Hawke,” Fenris says again, stern but not unkind. “You didn’t know.”

_ “At least try talking to the grand cleric again,”  _ Anders had asked. _ “Just one last time. Try to see if she’ll make a decision.”  _

_ “I doubt she will. It’s come up more than once. She’s made it clear how she feels.” _

_ “Just try. One more time? Please, for me.” _

Nathan had agreed, and had been surprised when Anders had gone with him. Aside from the night they’d confronted Sister Petrice, Anders hadn’t set foot in the Chantry since the night Karl died. But Nathan hadn’t commented on it, and hadn’t thought it strange when Anders touched his arm as they passed through the entry hall and whispered, _ “Go on ahead, I’ll join you in a minute.”  _ He’d sought out the grand cleric, talked to her once more about the growing conflict, hadn’t wondered where Anders had been, hadn’t asked him where he’d wandered off to; because this was  _ Anders _ , one of the kindest people he’d ever known, someone who’d risked discovery and imprisonment for years by healing those who had nowhere else to turn, saving untold numbers of lives that would otherwise have been lost.

“I didn’t.” The denial is almost a sob. “On my life, I swear, I didn’t…” 

Fenris interrupts with an impatient shake of his head. “I wasn’t asking if you did. We, all of us...we know you had no part in this.” There is no condemnation in his voice, and when Nathan finally meets his gaze, he sees none in his eyes, nor in the faces of his friends.  

“We’ve got to fix this,” Merrill says at last. 

“It may be too late for that,” Aveline sighs, “But we’re with you, Hawke. Lead on.”

Nathan doesn’t want to lead. He doesn’t want to fight. He’s not even sure he can keep breathing, but he has to. He has to, because his beloved has brought a death sentence down on the head of every mage in Kirkwall and all who would aid them, and if he doesn’t fight, he will die. 

So he straightens his shoulders and lifts his staff, and his remaining companions follow behind him. And he clears his mind of everything but taking one step after another and when to cast the next spell, because if he acknowledges the rising tide of his grief it will drag him under and he will drown.


	11. Cleave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Nathan's canon, Anders did not show up again at the Gallows before the final battle with Meredith. 
> 
> This chapter makes passing mention to events from "Fever Dreams" but it's not necessary to read that story.

Sundog doesn’t meet him at the door.

Nathan stops in the entry hall, hope and despair clashing like a storm front within his chest. There are only two people that the mabari adores enough to distract him from waiting for Nathan to come home...and Sandal is gone, on his way to Orlais with his father.

He leans wearily on his staff, fatigue and pains from the battle settling heavily on his bones. His heart thumps hollowly in his aching chest, and he stands with his head bowed until he hears the thud of heavy paws. Sundog barges into him, whuffling excitedly. He’s wiggling too much to be petted properly, but Nathan holds his hand out until the broad head nudges up under his palm. 

The corners of his mouth lift slightly at the dog’s affection. “Where is he, boy?” he asks softly. Sundog bounds ahead, looking back over his shoulder every few yards to make sure Nathan is following. He leads the way through the house, down to the cool darkness of the wine cellar. It’s pitch black when he enters the room, but a spark of flame emanates from the far corner as Anders lights the candle cupped in his hand. He looks up at Nathan from his low stool. 

Aching silence stretches between them, long enough that Sundog loses his self-satisfied air and sits at Nathan’s feet, looking up at him quizzically, unsure of what to do.

“Meredith is dead,” Nathan says dully. “Knight-Captain Cullen fought with us. He’s taken charge of the templars now and rescinded her order.”

Anders nods once, acknowledging. He’s having a hard time holding Nathan’s gaze. “Are you hurt?”

Nathan’s breath hitches. A myriad of small hurts have made themselves known since the battle in the Gallows, and his very soul is lacerated and bleeding, but he shakes his head. 

Anders looks at the floor. “I’m glad.”

“You should have run,” Nathan says hoarsely. “If they find you, they’ll kill you.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Oh,  _ that _ you couldn’t do.” 

Anders flinches away from the bitterness in his voice. “I’m sorry.”

“For _what?_ _What_ are you sorry for?” Anders doesn’t answer. Nathan gestures helplessly behind him, toward the city. “All those people, Anders!” The tears he’s been choking back for hours well in his eyes and spill onto his cheeks. “Are you sorry for _that?_ ”

“I-I don’t know.” Now that Nathan’s eyes have adjusted to the dim light, he sees that Anders is shaking. He wraps his arms around himself, huddling on his stool. 

“Just tell me,” Nathan forces out. “Was it you who did this? Or was it him?”

“We’re...I can’t answer that, I’ve told you, we’re the same person - ”

“You’re not!” Nathan catches his breath. He’s never shouted at Anders before. “You’re not the same person,” he says, voice wavering but calmer. “He’s inside you but you’re not the same. He’s been hiding things from you. Did you know he spoke to me while you were ill last year? He told me not to tell you.” Anders looks up at that, staring. He shakes his head numbly. “I was afraid of him,” Nathan continues. “Afraid for you. I didn’t tell you. I should have.”

“It’s all right that you didn’t. I don’t think it matters.”

Nathan doesn’t like the resignation creeping into his voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t...this...it took effort. A lot of work, over time,” Anders says. He looks as if the admission makes him ill. “Even if you’re right, even if this wasn’t...me...I didn’t stop it.” 

Nathan sinks down to sit on the floor, too weary and heartsick to remain on his feet any longer. Sundog nudges under his arm and he hugs the mabari close, grateful for the warmth of his bulk when he feels chilled inside and out. “Why didn’t you?” he whispers.

“They were always going to kill us,” Anders says bitterly. “You don’t know - you never lived in a Circle. Passing your Harrowing is merely a stay of execution; whether by slow suffocation by imprisonment killing us outright or obliterating our minds - for mercy’s sake, they keep us in a place called the  _ Gallows! _ I had to stop it!”

“By killing innocent people?”

“By forcing people to  _ choose! _ ” Anders’ shout echoes hard and cold off the stone walls. “By forcing our oppressors into the light of day, showing them for what they truly are and stopping them from murdering us by inches while the ‘innocent’ sit by and let it happen, and the righteous spout empty prayers and useless pity while they pretend to mourn our sorry fate!”

Nathan trembles, frightened and angry. “So you lie to me and turn to murder yourself, condemning all mages to death.” He pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his head in his arms to hide his tears. “How could you  _ do  _ this?”

A tentative touch on his shoulder. “Nathan...I’m sor - ”

Nathan recoils. “Don’t touch me!”

Anders looks stricken but draws back, fists tangling helplessly in the fabric of his robe. “I hated lying to you,” he says, voice raw. “But I couldn’t get you involved. There was no other way for us to save ourselves.”

“N-no other…” His voice trails off as he looks at Anders, a small shockwave rippling through him as he realizes that Anders truly  _ believes _ that. This man has been his rock, his shelter, the one thing he could count on for so many years. He’s as much a part of him as his own breath and blood, and somehow Nathan has never realized that Anders has been just as terrified as he himself has been.

He sees it now, as if looking at him for the first time: not a determined revolutionary, but a frightened, desperate man who has been fighting for his life ever since he was ripped from his home as a child. Every year under the thumb of the Circle, every thwarted escape attempt, every hour of every day spent in solitary confinement, every friend lost, has wounded his soul, leaving ever-deepening fractures that have never been allowed to heal. Anders fought for his freedom from the Circle only to lose it to the Grey Wardens. He had tried to wrest control back by leaving the order but it didn’t work, because a spirit saw what Nathan could not, taking advantage of the years of hurt and anger and oppression and feeding on them; and what Anders meant as an act of kindness gradually became a new set of shackles as Justice poured into the cracks in his soul like water that freezes in stone, causing slow hurt over long years.

Anders is his heart, and his heart is broken.

Reeling from the revelation, his voice shakes as he asks, “When you convinced me to help you...was any of it true? Or was that just a lie you knew I’d believe?”

Anders lifts his head. His expression is wary, but he has no trouble meeting Nathan’s eyes. “I knew you’d agree to help me,” he says very softly, “but that part of it...that wasn’t a lie.”

Nathan nods and turns his face away, hugging his knees more tightly. The stone floor is cold beneath him, and he shivers despite the warmth of Sundog against his side. Every heartbeat rattles him and he doesn’t know what to do. He knows he cannot stay in Kirkwall after what has happened. With Cullen in charge, he’ll likely be safe for the short term, but even though he helped save the city from Meredith’s madness, it will only be a matter of time before the city stops seeing him as its Champion and sees him only as a dangerous apostate. 

But the Free Marches are not safe for them, and no matter how kind or reasonable King Alistair had seemed, Anders will not be welcome in Ferelden now. And he realizes with a jolt that in spite of everything, he is still thinking of both of them, together. When he’d sent Anders away (was it truly only a few hours before?), he hadn’t expected to see him again. But he is here now, and Nathan realizes with a bewildering rush of relief and dismay that he loves him still. 

And Anders, damn him, with his perfect and terrible timing, ventures, “Please tell me what you’re thinking?”

Something between a laugh and a sob tries to claw its way out of Nathan’s throat, but he swallows it back. He asks, despairing, “Why did you come here?”

“I don’t know. Y-you’re right, I should’ve run. But I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, so…” He swallows audibly. “I didn’t intend - I don’t want to hurt you any more. If you ask me to go, I will.” 

He would, Nathan knows. He’s good at making people disappear, and if Nathan tells him to leave, he will never see him again. He doesn’t know if he can live with himself if he lets Anders stay, but the thought of living without him brings pain so savage he can scarcely breathe around it. He sent him away once; he cannot bear to do it again.

“No.” He inhales sharply, scrubbing his hands down his face to wipe the damp trails away as he pushes himself to his feet. “We’re going to Tevinter. Feynriel won’t betray us, and if there’s any chance at all your research has merit…” He trails off, suddenly uncertain if Anders will be willing to follow through. 

Anders looks up at him from his seat on the floor, but closes his lips on whatever he was going to say. Nathan sees that he wants to object, and his gut twists, but when Anders finds his tongue he doesn’t object in the way Nathan fears. “Even as a mage, Tevinter will not be safe for you.”

“I’m aware.”

He drops his gaze. “They would look more favorably on you if you owned a slave,” he says haltingly. Nathan shakes his head, confused and then horrified as Anders goes on. “You can say that’s what I am.”

“No! Maker, I can’t…! - how can you even suggest such a thing?”

He remains calm in the face of Nathan’s distress. “Your servant, then. I won’t be carrying a staff.”

“Anders - ” 

“No one will pay attention to how a servant is treated but they will not treat you kindly if they know I am your partner,” he says, speaking more firmly. “You will get no help from anyone and if there’s any chance for us to - to be rid of Justice, then…” He gestures vaguely between them. “They can’t know.” Nathan just looks at him, at a loss for words. After a moment, Anders’ expression shifts, sorrowful but sincere. “I’ll understand if things are different between us now,” he says gently. “I don’t want to force anything on you. I’m grateful for any help, but please don’t think...If we can’t be what we were before…”

“Stop it.” His voice is no more than a whisper, but Anders falls silent. Nathan kneels in front of him and takes his hand. “I don’t know if we can. I don’t know where to go from here. And I don’t know if I can forgive you. But it doesn’t change that I love you. I’m not going to leave you. So...If we need to keep that a secret for a while, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Anders looks at their joined hands for a moment before tentatively reaching forward, relaxing a little when Nathan allows him to take both of his, palm to palm. His thumbs move softly across the back of Nathan’s hands. “I don’t think I’m worthy of your forgiveness,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t expect it of you. But I am grateful for whatever you will give me, and whatever life I have left to me is yours.”

Nathan grips his hands tightly and ducks his head, breathing carefully until the fresh burn of tears fades and he’s regained his composure. A fierce pang of loss courses through him as he thinks of Carver; his brother left to rejoin the Wardens directly from the Gallows, and it’s cold comfort to think it may be a long time before Carver finds out what happened after they parted. Nathan finds himself hoping that he never finds out - it is easier to think that Carver will believe him disappeared into the wilds than to imagine how he will despise him when he learns what he has done. 

But he has chosen to follow his heart, no matter how wounded it may be, and he will not allow himself to regret it. “Come,” he says softly. He starts to stand, stiff and aching now, the exertion of battle making itself known after being still. When Anders reaches out to help, Nathan lets him. Even when he’s regained his feet, he doesn’t let go of Anders’ hand.


End file.
